


burn me up, baby, burn me until it shows

by forcynics



Category: Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: F/F, Femslash February
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 03:33:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6103438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forcynics/pseuds/forcynics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isabelle draws runes on Clary before they go demon hunting, and it hurts, but it slowly brings them closer together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	burn me up, baby, burn me until it shows

**Author's Note:**

> written for the prompt "I'm feeling the pain, I'm feeling the pleasure" at the [shadowhunters fictathon](http://ladygawain.livejournal.com/83265.html)

  
  
  
  


When Clary thinks of the words “demon hunting,” she thinks of shadowy monsters and fearsome warriors with swords and shields and maybe some good old chain-mail thrown in there too—

A skin-tight little black dress never really came to mind.

“Are you sure about this?”

Isabelle giggles, and Clary flicks her eyes away from her reflection to cast a skeptical look in the other girl’s direction. Isabelle is sprawled back on Clary’s bed, head tilted to better judge the final product of her styling efforts. 

“You’ll blend in perfectly,” Isabelle declares, hopping to her feet and sauntering over, wide grin like a cat ready to pounce as she twirls her stele through the air. “Just need one last touch.”

Clary straightens up, hopes it’s not too obvious how she pulls her shoulders back and tilts her chin up as Isabelle crowds a little closer into her space. Runes are part of being a Shadowhunter. The evidence of that is splashed over Isabelle’s own bare arms, burned into her chest and her collarbones. 

It’s still a little new for Clary though, a little concerning each time someone steps close with stele in hand and she has to try not to flinch at the burn, because she’s supposed to be one of them too. She doesn’t mind the physical marks. They’re beautiful, and the artist in her is fascinated by the language of loops and swirls of magic, but each time someone carves another one into her, it’s a sharp reminder that being a Shadowhunter is in her blood. It’s permanent; no going back to life before. 

Isabelle sweeps Clary’s hair back over her shoulder, better to expose the top of her arm as she brings the stele close to the skin. 

“For agility,” she announces, voice soft as she carves the mark into Clary’s skin. It burns and glows and hisses and Clary grits her teeth. Her fingers twitch, reflexively reaching for something to grip onto, something to dig her nails into, but she grasps at empty air. She hopes that Isabelle doesn’t notice.

She can’t imagine Isabelle feeling any kind of nerves at the prospect of a simple rune. She can’t imagine Isabelle feeling any kind of nerves at _anything_ , honestly. Isabelle with her silver whip and her lightning reflexes and her prowling walk and her blinding presence that demands the attention of everyone in any given room. 

Clary’s getting used to the Shadowhunters and the Institute and even the idea that there are demons in the world around them, but if there’s anything that still intimidates her, just a little bit, it’s Isabelle Lightwood.

It’s not just that she’s stunning, in an impossible-to-ignore, painful-to-stare-at-for-too-long kind of way. 

It’s also her utter ease with all of this, how naturally everything comes to her, whether it’s hunting down demons and snaring them in her whip or leading Clary around the Institute and rattling off stories about Shadowhunter history or picking out the perfect outfit to wear to infiltrate an exclusive Downworlder party. 

Being a Shadowhunter comes _easy_ to Isabelle. It makes Clary wonder what her life would have been like if she’d grown up knowing her own heritage too, if she’d never had her memories stolen, if she’d been trained to kill monsters since she was a child and couldn’t imagine another way of living.

Clary’s arm feels warm, pin-pricks tingling where the rune is sinking into her skin. She blinks. She’s still clenching her jaw, and she blows out a slow breath. 

Isabelle purses her fuchsia-painted lips. “Let’s do one more for speed. Just in case.” She winks and grabs Clary’s other wrist. Her nails are clean of polish, perfectly manicured and slightly pointed, pressing into the skin just a little too hard. 

This rune takes longer, Isabelle’s brow furrowed as she patiently traces the intricate design into the small of Clary’s wrist. It hurts more than the first rune, white hot pain that lances so deep it feels like Isabelle’s stele might pierce right through her, and Clary’s whole arm goes ramrod stiff with the effort of keeping still and not yanking away.

She tries to keep her breathing steady but it sounds impossibly loud in the small space between them. Her wrist feels hotter and hotter and her heart hammers and hammers against her ribs, tripping up her breathing into something more scattered and closer to panic. 

“Perfect,” Isabelle says finally, pulling back. The rune is still glowing, angry, vivid orange slashed into her skin, and Clary shudders as she finally lets her arm relax.

“Thanks.”

Isabelle doesn’t step back, even though there are no more runes to draw. Her thumb traces gently over the skin of Clary’s wrist right beneath the rune, not close enough to where it’s still tender and simmering to hurt, an impossibly cooler touch that feels a little like an apology, or at least sympathy, for the searing mark. 

“It gets easier every time,” Isabelle says, and her voice is kind but Clary still feels embarrassed. They’re the same age, but Isabelle’s arms are covered in runes. Clary can’t help staring at them, can’t quite meet Isabelle’s eyes. 

“What about killing demons?” Her cheeks feel too-warm and her mouth feels too dry. “Does that get easier too?”

So far she’s been dealing with all of this by rushing into it headlong, like if she just keeps pushing forward, keeps arguing with anyone who tries to tell what she can’t do, then the bravery will catch up with her. _She’s a Shadowhunter._ Doesn’t that mean she was born to do this just as much as Isabelle and the others? 

Isabelle’s dark eyes narrow at her. She lifts a hand to Clary’s cheek, just the softest touch, brushing her hair back a bit with gentle fingers. 

“Of course,” she says firmly, with the kind of conviction that could persuade men to follow her into battle. She sounds so sure of herself that Clary might just believe her.

Then she takes a step back, runs her eyes up and down Clary’s dress appraisingly. 

“Runes, check. Fabulous dress, check. You’re _welcome_. Now let’s go kick some demon ass.”

 

 

 

They kick ass, they celebrate success back at the Institute, and Clary starts to feel a little more like this could really be her life. It is hers, just as much as any of them. She wants this.

But there’s always more demon ass to kick, _c’est la vie_ if she’s really going to be a Shadowhunter. 

It’s only a few days later, and they’re already heading back out into battle again. This time, it’s less of party-crashing affair, and her new wardrobe reflects that. Isabelle lends her black leggings and a fitted black top, simple Shadowhunter gear.

“I liked the dress better.” Isabelle purses her lips as Clary joins the others in the foyer. Jace is going over his runes, Alec is loading his arrows, and Isabelle is stretching and staring at Clary.

Clary glances down, shrugs, tries not to feel self-conscious in Isabelle’s clothes under Isabelle’s scrutiny. 

“I’m just glad I don’t have to wear _heels_ to hunt _demons_ this time.”

Isabelle heaves a melodramatic sigh and straightens up out of her stretch. 

“I have _so_ much to teach you.”

“Alright, less talk about outfits, more talk about the plan,” Alec interjects, eyebrows drawn together in that permanent state of mild frustration, like he really shouldn’t have to be telling them this, but such are the burdens of being in charge.

“Clary, you need your runes,” Jace reminds her. He’s still tracing out his own marks down his arm.

“Got it,” Isabelle winks and slips between them, lips slipping up into a tiny smile once she’s close enough only Clary could notice.

Clary holds out her arm, swallows, tries to ignore the twist in her stomach as Isabelle pulls out her stele, tries to ignore the way her pulse speeds up at Isabelle’s sudden proximity.

Isabelle presses the stele into her arm firmly, and there’s the same familiar hiss of skin burning, and Clary’s mouth goes dry, one sharp breath slipping out between her teeth despite her best efforts. 

And then there’s Isabelle’s other hand on her shoulder, and it could just be her steadying herself as she completes the last flourish, but she rubs her thumb in a slow circle and there’s something comforting about the gesture, something that makes Clary’s throat constrict and pulls her attention entirely away from the throbbing burn in her arm for one split second.

“All done,” Isabelle says softly, flicks her eyes up to Clary’s, narrowed like she’s looking for something.

It takes Clary a second to swallow. “Great,” she says, hopes her voice sounds normal, thinks it probably does, thinks it’s just the rush in her own ears that makes everything sound a little off.

Maybe it really does get easier.

 

 

 

They kill the demons, again. It’s a good fight, go team, and they get the job done, but the last one left is a particularly nasty creature, too many teeth and too many claws and too much dripping venom from it’s too many teeth and claws, and it manages to rip one of those claws into Clary’s side before Alec’s arrow lands straight between its eyes and its gone in a whirl of gold sparks.

Clary cries out but she doesn’t crumple, just staggers a little, gets her hand on the wound and manages to steady her feet, breathing heavy and uneven and crunching up her face against the sudden pain.

She vaguely registers her friends calling her name but she can’t tell the voices apart, can’t really focus on anything except suddenly a pair of arms grabbing her shoulders, and then Isabelle is right there speaking calmly—

“Hey, Clary, hey, it’s okay, it’s okay, let me just…”

Isabelle peels Clary’s hand away from her side slowly, and Clary hisses at the lack of pressure, but then Isabelle’s stele is pressing into the wound, tracing over it slowly, and it burns her skin the same as always but it feels like a cold burn compared to the feverish pain of the demon’s claws, somehow wiping it all away, slowly, slowly, until the pain recedes and the world stops looking so blurry and there’s just Isabelle, and over her shoulder, Jace and Alec. 

They all look concerned, even Alec, and Clary lets out a shaky breath and tries to straighten up again. Her side is still throbbing and the skin is a little red around a faint scar, but it’s okay, it’s okay, just like Isabelle promised.

“I’m okay,” she tells them, and she means it. A demon got its claws in her and she’s going to be just fine, because it’s just another fight, just another day, because she’s a Shadowhunter and this is what she’s supposed to do, as much as any of them.

It still hurts, a little, but there’s a flare of pride in her chest that’s growing and she can’t quite squash it down, can’t quite keep the grin from slowly spreading across her face, even if it just makes them all look a little more concerned.

She laughs.

“I’m okay!”

And that feels pretty damn great.

 

 

 

She’s drawing in bed that night, crossed-legged and hunched over her sketchbook, when there’s a knock at the door, and then Isabelle slinks into the room. She’s shed her gear from earlier in the day and changed into a tight black top and a violently pink skirt.

“Most people knock and then wait for a response,” Clary tells her, eyebrow raised, but she doesn’t really mean it and she’s pretty sure her smile gives her away.

Isabelle shrugs, sits down on Clary’s bed and leans closer with one hand planted on the mattress.

“And here I thought saving your life might make me special,” she taunts. 

Clary flushes, but Isabelle’s tone is light and she’s smirking, teasing.

“Kidding,” Isabelle clarifies, and she says it so quickly that it almost comes across as nervous, even though Clary can’t imagine Isabelle Lightwood ever being nervous or uncertain of herself.

“Thank you,” Clary says quietly, ducking her head as she closes up her sketchbook and pushes it aside.

Isabelle glances at the book, but she doesn’t ask what’s in it, just rolls her eyes. “You don’t have to thank me, Clary. We all have each other backs, always. I was just being a good Shadowhunter.”

The words sting a little bit, like it takes something away from her, even though Clary doesn’t think Isabelle means them to. Isabelle seems to realize that, frowning slightly, tossing her hair over her shoulder. 

“Anyway, the rune took care of the worst it, but you should probably refresh it before you go to sleep, or you’ll be sore in the morning. I thought, if you want—” She waves her stele.

“Oh.” Clary blinks, swallows. Isabelle bites her lip, and manages to look almost-nervous again for the second time in as many minutes, and that’s more startling than any of the demons they fought today.

“Yeah, of course, thanks,” she finally says, maybe a second too late, maybe a little too awkward, shifting closer to Isabelle and pulling up the hem of her shirt, trying not to wince at the sight of the scar. Her skin is still red around it, and her mind flashes to all those teeth and claws. 

Isabelle shifts herself too, knee bumping Clary’s as she gets comfortable. 

If Clary was a real Shadowhunter like the rest of them, she would know how to draw all her own runes, and she wouldn’t need midnight check-ups from Isabelle Lightwood. 

But here they are.

Isabelle bites her lip as she leans closer over Clary, pressing the stele carefully into the skin below the wound, before making a sweeping stroke upwards, and then another loop back down. Her hair is brushing Clary’s face, but at least it means she doesn’t see the grimace Clary makes when the stele first burns her skin. 

Clary’s fingers twitch, gripping the tangled sheets at her sides as Isabelle works on the rune. Isabelle’s free hand reaches out and covers hers, squeezes, and Clary’s fingers scrabble to tangle with hers and squeeze harder. She’s breathing through her nose, teeth clenched shut.

Isabelle finishes the last curl of the mark, and releases a long breath Clary didn’t realize she was holding. Then there’s no noise in the room, just the two of them sitting on Clary’s mattress, fingers twined together tightly.

They stay like that, for a moment. Clary gazes over Isabelle’s back, down her bare shoulder-blades with the shadows of old runes inked into them. 

Isabelle lifts her head, tilts it.

“Is it getting easier?” she asks quietly. She chews her lip again, and Clary notices she’s not wearing any of her usual bold lipstick, not this late at night. Her hair’s loose over her shoulders, and her eyes are dark and narrowed as she waits for her answer, and she looks like she could launch a thousand ships, and she is so close to Clary in her bed. 

“Yeah,” Clary says, and she leans in closer. It almost feels subconscious, as natural as falling into a gravitational orbit, she’s being pulled in, but Isabelle doesn’t draw back. Isabelle smiles slowly at her answer, and Isabelle whispers “Good,” right before Clary kisses her.

Her side still aches from the burn of the stele but it’s the farthest thing from her mind. Isabelle untangles their fingers, runs her hand up Clary’s arm to cup the back of her neck. She’s kissing her back, and it’s more impossible than anything else in Clary’s life, Isabelle Lightwood kissing her.

Isabelle curves over Clary, still kissing her, parting her lips with her soft mouth and biting her lip gently with pin-prick teeth. Isabelle presses her back insistently, and Clary falls back into her pillows, lets Isabelle settle over her, awed by the warm weight of her. Isabelle pushes some of Clary’s hair off her cheek, tucks it gently behind her ear, and Clary gulps for a breath. 

Her heart is pounding like mad and she can’t catch her breath and her mouth is warm and just a little bit sore and Isabelle is smiling down at her. Clary can’t think of any words to say. 

Thankfully, Isabelle finds her voice first.

“I’m glad you found out that you’re a Shadowhunter, Clary Fray,” she says, dragging out the words slow and soft.

Clary tangles her fingers in Isabelle’s dark hair, presses herself up for another kiss, blood pounding in her ears. Her entire world has changed in a matter of days, her entire life was never what she thought it was, but now she knows what she is, and it is everything she wants.

She inhales sharply, mouth sliding against Isabelle’s, kisses her for one more warm press of lips, and then pulls back, and all she can do is smile.

“Me too.”

  
  
  
  



End file.
